


Ours

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:33:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam just really wants the Batcave to be theirs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Title:  Ours  
Pairing:  Sam/Dean  
Rating:  NC17  
Warnings:  only very slight spoilers for 8.14  
Summary: Sam just really wants the Batcave to be theirs.

A/N: oh you guys, i played over at my new wife (SHE SAID YES!!) [](http://glovered.livejournal.com/profile)[ **glovered**](http://glovered.livejournal.com/)'s [Batcave Fic and Art Comment Fest](http://glovered.livejournal.com/99804.html) and you should definitely check out the fills because they are made of so much sam and dean love that the smile will not be able to be removed from your face. seriously. it'll be like the angel ep "smile time," only way less creepy and with far fewer children. *shivers*

ANYway, i played. with [](http://glovered.livejournal.com/profile)[ **glovered**](http://glovered.livejournal.com/)'s prompt: Something atmospheric, warm, and cuddly. It's kind of chilly in the BC, so Sam gets wood from the town nearby/fells it himself, shirtless and with a Men of Letters Custom Made Blessed Iron Axe, and when he gets back, it's raining and Dean's hanging out in a bathrobe by the fire. They can hear raindrops against the metal door and it's cheesy as all get out. Cue making out by the fire and unspoken promises and stuff.

and this is what came out.

the subject line is a serious warning because this is SOOOO insanely schmoopy it should probably be outlawed. but it does have bonus grocery shopping at the end!! i don't know why that would be a yay, but YAY!!

so, here, just. call your dentist:

 

 

 

 

Turns out the only problem with having an underground fortress of solitude is it's damn hard to keep warm.

Dean would have been more prepared had the Batman movies actually addressed the issue. Seriously, Bruce Wayne had to have had heating problems, right?

It took a hell of a long time for the electricity to pump any kind of warmth into the place, although it's kind of a losing battle, what with the stone walls and dampness from the earth seeping into the joint. Really, if Dean's being truthful, the outstanding water pressure is only a marginal reason he spends so long in the shower -- pipes warms up way faster than rooms.

When the old time heater sputters to a stop and the coils fade from red to pink to black again, and nothing Dean does can bring the damn thing back to life, he decides it's way past time to make use of the fire places. With his only option for fuel being the mammoth pieces of furniture scattered throughout the various rooms, he's halfway through hacking up a bookshelf when Sam finds him and practically has a stroke on the spot.

Sam flails around and brays and launches into antiques roadshow explanations and something about fumes from the varnish killing them -- Dean's not totally sure of the specifics because he gets a little caught up watching how the golden undertone of the lamp light plays in Sam's hair as his brother tosses his head around to make his point.

Dean's never noticed the auburn streaks before. It's kind of pretty. It almost matches the dark red blotches on Sam's neck from this apoplexy he seems to be going through.

"Are you even listening to me?" Sam practically growls.

Dean blinks. Crap, he really wasn't. "Yeah, no, sure, I'm with you, Sammy. It's priceless and we're gonna die from vapors or something."

Dean doesn't think he hit the mark very close because Sam's expression takes on an incredulity that's remarkable even for him. Backpedaling being something Dean's raised to an artform, he starts metaphorically spinning his gears the other direction.

"Sammy, listen, the heaters are dead. I can't get them going again, and they're so ancient, I seriously doubt we can find replacement parts anyway, so we gotta figure something out to stay warm. I'm assuming from your current state making out isn't an option."

Dean waggles his eyebrows, 'cause that was a good one -- plus he's kinda hoping he's wrong and playing tonsil hockey might actually be on the table.

Sam has this thing he does where he crosses his arms and cocks his hip out and adopts a death glare and huffs a clearly agitated breath all that the same time. Dean assumes it's supposed to be menacing, but it's a throwback from when Sam first went through puberty and really, it's basically just adorable.

Dean never tells Sam this, though, because usually when he sees the stance, he's about a second from getting the beat down of his life and words like that are not in Dean's out-loud vocabulary.

He nods, tries to give Sam the "message received" look, but apparently it doesn't take.

"So the heat goes out and your first thought is to chop up the furniture for fire wood?"

Dean's standing with axe in hand over a nearly destroyed bookcase and just manages to not actually say "duh." It's a near thing, though. He tries to defend himself with a, "there weren't any books in it," thinking maybe Sam's upset stems from a possible threat to his precious tomes and volumes of history and chronicles and whatever-the-fuck.

Sam just shakes his head rather vigorously -- and damn, those copper streaks kind of sparkle -- grabs the axe from Dean's hand and says, "Just...stop, okay? Don't...do anything else. I'm gonna...just..."

Dean's left to watch Sam flit around like a bee without a hive, grabbing his coat and some freaking, wicked-looking blade that shows he's clearly overcompensating for something and stomping outside.

It's not long before the door swings back open and hunks of wood fly through, landing haphazardly on the balcony. As the pile grows, Dean seriously considers signing Sam up for one of those lumberjack competitions. They could score some quick cash with Sam's skills.

Dean's query of "need help?" is met with another dirty look, so Dean holds up his hands in surrender and goes to take another shower.

Since he's not gonna get his fire for a while and Sam's obviously in no mood to fool around, he's gotta warm up somehow.

**

Dead guy robe or not, Dean's gotta admit the damn thing's comfortable as he tiptoes out of the bathroom about forty-five minutes later to see if Sam's cooled down any.

He finds his brother, shirtless and wet, stacking evenly-cut wood on the stone hearth.

He doesn't think he makes a noise, but he really can't be sure.

Sam had started a fire at some point and if Dean thought the lamps on the walls cast a golden glow to everything, that's nothing compared to flame. Sam's hair is dripping at the ends, tiny splatters of water coating his shoulders and chest and all of it outlined in the warm gleam of the crackling wood.

It's utterly breath-taking.

Dean sinks into one of the leather, wing-back chairs in front of the fireplace, almost without conscious thought and definitely without taking his eyes off his brother. He watches, practically mesmerized, by the play of muscles all along Sam's back, light and shadow touching the expanse of skin like it's a canvas, an artist's template just waiting for the right brush stroke.

Sam turns slightly in his task, makes eye contact through his wet bangs and something zips through Dean in a heated rush.

Jesus, sometimes he forgets how much power his brother can give off with a single look.

Dean clears his throat and attempts levity, "So Paul Bunyon, you run into shirt-stealing gypsies in the forest or what?"

Sam shrugs, resumes piling the wood into a neat bundle and mumbles, "Got hot and then it started to rain. Coat and shirt were more like sponges than anything."

It's only then that Dean can hear the plinking of the drops against the metal door. "Dude, still, it's cold as hell outside. You gotta be freezing."

Sam shrugs and finishes his neat bundle of slightly damp wood.

Dean waits. Mostly because he's content just watching, noticing the way Sam's jeans -- dark from the rainwater -- hug his hips and thighs, and mapping the veins in his brother's forearm from elbow to wrist and back again. He has no idea how long it takes Sam to turn and kneel at his feet, but Dean opens his legs without thinking, because it's just natural for Sam to be slotted between.

"I just..." Sam starts, eyes trained somewhere around Dean's waist. "...this place. It's...kind of ours, you know?"

Dean sometimes wonders if he's got the spirit of a teenage girl trapped inside him and he just doesn't know it. When Sam gets like this -- contrite, quiet, trying to make a point but clearly unsure how to accurately word it -- guilt-ridden for some perceived ill that's so not even an issue -- Dean just wants to wrap him up tight and never let go.

Down here, in their private little sanctuary, with the awesome shower and nearly gourmet kitchen, Dean feels free to embrace his more adolescent urges. Who's gonna know? Hell, there's a good chance the Men of Letters demon- and angel-proofed this place. They're so far off the grid, they're practically non-existent.

And he happens to have a thing for Sam's delight in being coddled. Oh, his brother isn't obvious about it or anything, but Dean knows. He can always tell.

So he scoots forward a little, digs his fingers into Sam's wet hair and is brought up short by the abject chill. "Jesus, you idiot, you're like a block of ice."

Sam's shoulders scrunch up in another aborted, reluctant gesture that has Dean pushing to his feet, bunching Sam back onto his haunches.

"Stay here," Dean commands. "And get rid of the jeans and boots."

He's a little surprised when he gets back with a pile of towels and blankets to find that Sam obeyed -- he's sitting on the edge of the hearth in just boxers, drops of rain still dripping from his hair.

Dean starts at Sam's head, scrubbing the towel over the wet strands until most of the liquid is absorbed and Sam stays compliant, docile, but Dean hears the deep sigh and thinks this was likely what Sam had been angling for all along.

He lays out two of the thicker blankets close to the fire -- deliberately doesn't consider how much this looks like an overdone, cheesy scene from every soap opera on the planet -- and asks, "Boxers wet, too?"

Sam doesn't speak, just jerks in an utterly non-committal response and Dean points to the middle of the blanket and directs, "Get in."

Sam slides to the floor, worms his way in between the comforters and whispers, "Come with."

Dean grins, doesn't have a hope in hell of resisting a pleading, nearly naked Sam, and wiggles underneath, face to face with Sam, both of them twitching and squirming until they're lined up, legs interlocked, covers wrapped around them like burritos, heads pillowed on an extra blanket, the only things keeping them from being skin-to-skin are Dean's robe and Sam's boxers, and shit yeah, this feels just about perfect.

The fire is churning into a real furnace blast of heat from behind Sam and Dean thinks he might be a little drunk off of the feel of the blanket on top of him and his brother curled around him because he can't seem to stop touching Sam.

And oddly enough, not inappropriately.

It starts with Sam's hair, towel-dry and soft. It still holds a faint hint of that ridiculously clean-smelling shampoo Sam uses and Dean has to run just a finger through it, parting it in different places, letting chunks of it fall over the crown of Sam's head. He twines all five fingers of his left hand from Sam's temple to nape, fisting softly and letting go, just to do it all over again.

Sam's eyes droop and he makes a quiet, contended noise.

From there, Dean's pulled in by Sam's stupid eyebrows. They're more silken than any dude's have a right to be and Dean gets a little caught up in lightly rubbing a finger over one -- in the opposite way the hair grows -- only to smooth it back down.

Sam's lips climb into a smile and a dimple dips into his cheek and, like a magnet, Dean's hand is drawn down.

He's got three fingers right over the bow of Sam's mouth when his brother asks, "Dean, can we keep it?"

Dean hums a question, not totally sure what Sam's looking for.

"This," Sam explains, warm breath fanning over Dean's fingers. "The Batcave."

Dean's captured by the light and shadow dancing over Sam's face and he murmurs, "Doubt the real estate market's exactly hot for underground bunkers right now, Sammy."

Sam shakes his head, brushing plush lips back-and-forth against Dean's hand. "No, I mean," he stops for a minute, seems almost as lost to Dean's touch as Dean feels. "I just…I want it to be ours," he whispers, legs scissoring in a quick flutter against Dean's. "Yours and mine."

Something bright and warmer than the fire shivers through Dean's chest and he drops his fingers from Sam's mouth so he can concentrate on his brother's eyes. "Yeah?"

Sam nods, voice low-pitched. "S'why I got…kinda weird with the bookshelf," he shimmies a little and hooks an ankle around the back of Dean's calf. "It's like. This sort of feels like a gift we've been given and when I think about what it cost dad…"

Sam glances down, slips a half an inch closer, and Dean trails a hand around the small of Sam's back, locking them up tight.

Sam clears his throat, "What we took from dad…"

_And I'd do it all over again if it meant saving you._

Dean doesn't say it out loud, but he knows, deep in his gut, that it's true. He feels a pang of guilt, a touch of remorse, but he also understands that a father doesn't have to reap what he's known onto his sons. A father doesn't have to let revenge and bitterness drive him. Dean had learned that with Ben. Had known he could be -- wanted to be -- different. Knew almost as soon as his hand had met the flesh of Ben's cheek that he needed them to forget.

He couldn't let the sins of the father continue to play out in an endless circle.

As much as he loves his dad -- and to this day, when he hears certain songs, smells certain odors, he misses him with a clench so tight in his stomach he fears internal injuries -- he wants to be more, better.

And, ultimately, if the cost of freeing his dad from a life without his own father is Sam's life, that's a deal -- for the first time in a long time -- that Dean's just not willing to take.

Dean shifts close enough that their noses touch, letting Sam know he understands and that it's okay.

"I just think we should be grateful to have this place and I want it to be ours," Sam continues. "And we should treat it with respect, like we do the Impala, you know?"

Dean smirks, "So you're gonna leave empty salad dressing packets all over this place, too?"

Sam grunts a laugh. "Shut up, you know what I mean."

This time Dean leans up and sweeps a quick kiss over Sam's lips. "Yeah, I do."

Sam responds with a quick peck of his own before Dean says, "So you gonna keep doing your lumberjack impersonation to keep this place of ours warm? 'Cause I gotta say, little brother, it was pretty hot."

Sam's hips push up against Dean's and he whispers, "Yeah?"

"Mmmm," Dean says. "Where'd you find that giant freakin' axe anyway?"

"One of the rooms downstairs," Sam explains as he wraps his thick arms around Dean in what Dean suspects is supposed to be a smooth move, but is so transparent Dean doesn't really have the heart to call him on it. "Lots of stuff down there. I'll show you sometime."

Dean can feel his face light up at the mention of more weapons to peruse.

Sam chuckles, "God, you're so easy."

Dean hitches up against Sam's chest. "You love it."

"You have no idea."

Dean's heart thumps a little harder at that. "You gonna shut up and do this right or what?"

Sam grumbles, "Fucker," right before he connects their mouths.

It's slow, the kiss. Like they have nowhere better to be and nothing better to do. Like neither of them are in any kind of life-threatening peril and truly, down here, they aren't. It's just, Jesus, it's really nice. Unhurried, lazy, warm. The fire pops and cracks behind them and Dean can practically hear the goofy violin music in his head from all the soaps he watches when he can, but he really can't seem to stop or rev the situation up higher to get to what he used to consider the good stuff.

It somehow feels right, the realization that with Sam everything's the good stuff.

Time grows languid, drawn out, and it's measured by the lazy glide of Sam's tongue and the sweet, hushed noises he makes.

Dean's lips tingle and throb, feel abused, and he never knew how awesome it could be just to make out. He kind of doesn't want to stop. Maybe ever.

"Could do this all night," Sam says without separating their mouths.

"Ditto," Dean mumbles.

Sam pulls back a little and the surprise on his face stops Dean for a second.

"Really?" Sam asks.

Dean has to reach up and rub a thumb across Sam's puffy, red, bottom lip. "Hell yeah. I fucking love your mouth."

Sam sucks in a sharp breath and Dean can feel his brother's dick thicken against his thigh.

"Uh oh," Dean almost sing-songs. "Looks like Sammy Jr. wants to take this to the next level."

Sam laughs -- his chest shudders against Dean's -- and he giggles, "Jesus, you are so fucked up."

Dean chuckles and kisses Sam again, grinds his own half hard cock against his brother's.

Sam whines a little and says Dean's name exactly the way Dean fucking loves -- all needy and low, like he can't help it.

And they're back to making out, a little heavier this time, just that much closer to intent, and Dean wraps all ten fingers through Sam's hair, the silky stands gliding along the sensitive skin near his palm, and Dean directs Sam's head, tilts his mouth just so, lining up their lips and tongues and it's so fucking amazing, Dean whimpers without meaning to.

An impatient sound bubbles out of Sam's throat and Dean can feel the lapels of his robe part, baring his stomach and cock, the material of Sam's boxers churning between them, wet from a steady stream of precome from both of them.

Dean's pretty sure they're generating as much heat as the fire at this point and even though part of him wants to throw off the blankets, there's something secretive, private, hidden about having the serious stuff going on under cover. It's making his dick pound, hard.

Sam pulls back with a gravel sound, an _ungh_ noise that makes Dean twitch with the need to get his brother off.

Sam buries his face against Dean's neck and whispers, "Wanna come, Dean."

Dean's got his nose in Sam's hair, fingers embedded at his nape and says, "Yeah, Sammy. Fuck, yeah…get your boxers outta the way."

Sam grunts, but drags a hand between them and there's something blazing hot about directing Sam, about not letting go of his brother's hair as Sam does as he's bade that really turns Dean's crank.

"Fuck," Dean growls against Sam's skin with a sluggish roll of his hips. "Tuck the elastic under your balls."

Sam moans, but Dean can feel his brother's hips slide away for a split second and then it's glorious, fucking heated skin-on-skin, cocks rubbing together and Sam's balls are plumped up because of the waistband of his boxers and Dean feels like he's gone from a teenage make-out session to a very adult orgasm in a matter of seconds. The tip of his dick catches against Sam's, precome making everything slick and slippery and he can't fucking breathe because of how amazing it feels and his own nuts pull up close to his body and he murmurs, "Shit, Sammy, yeah, c'mon," against his brother's sweaty neck.

Sam pants against Dean's ear, hips a wild piston against Dean's, "Uh uh uh, Dean…"

"Together, together, together," Dean chokes out.

And it's like the chant works because they both pull up and freeze at the very same second and Dean's not sure whose come is whose, but he knows that both of their stomachs are coated and they're clinging tight, breathing heavy, and even though it's nothing more than dry humping, it's up there in the top ten moments of his life.

They don't let go, even when their respiration and heart rates even out, and by the time Sam kisses him again, deep, tongue licking along Dean's teeth, Dean's so overly sensitive and sweaty it seems like he's circled back around to aroused, but he knows it's just a profound contentment.

He falls back onto the blanket with a smacking sound as their mouths separate and Sam follows, tucks his head under Dean's chin and Dean pulls him in, won't admit out loud that he loves a good snuggle -- especially with his brother -- but it's true nonetheless.

Sam hitches a leg up, across both of Dean's thighs, the meat of Sam's muscles resting just under Dean's balls and even though they're a little achey and raw, goddamn, it feels good, so Dean hooks a hand under Sam's knee and kneads him even closer.

He grins against Sam's clean-smelling hair, "Thought you wanted to make out all night?"

Sam kisses Dean's shoulder around a smile. "I did, but your damn dirty talk got me all chubbed up."

Dean squirms -- he fucking loves it when Sam uses gutter words and Sam damn well knows it -- and mumbles, "Quit it, dude. I can't go again that fast."

Sam chuckles. "Old man."

Dean digs the stubble on his chin into the top of Sam's head. "Shut up. You can't either."

Sam wiggles even closer. "You are not wrong."

Dean knows he's gotta get up soon and figure out what they're gonna do for dinner, but he's too sedate and spent to think seriously about it at the moment. Instead, he asks quietly, "Ours, huh?"

This puts Sam in motion and he props himself up on an elbow to make eye contact. "I..." he stutters. "Y-yeah. I'd like it if it could be."

Sam's messed up mop of hair flops onto his cheek and Dean has to push it back so he can see his brother clearly. "I would, too, Sammy."

In keeping with the cheesy theme of the evening, Dean figures if ever there was the equivalent of a sunrise on a human being's face, Sam's expression would be it. He literally beams and he looks young and confident and thrilled and so fucking happy that a hell of a lot of the emotion is transmitted back to Dean -- his heart swells and he squeezes the back of Sam's knee and has to blink a couple of times because of the dust in the damn place and he clears his throat and says, "Okay, Samantha. We're on the same page, let's not make a whole event out of it."

If anything, Sam smiles brighter and noses his face back down to Dean's neck where he peppers the skin with absurd, noisy, wet kisses that make Dean laugh in spite of himself.

"My big brother's the best big brother," Sam mumbles around Dean's jaw.

The tickling starts soon after and it's childish and stupid and so fucking fun and they stop every once in a while to make out a little and supper's really late, but no one's complaining at all.

**

Dean's always had this weird thing where wakes up pretty much any time Sam moves. It's been that way practically since they were little. A six-month-old needs someone when his dad's passed out on the couch -- even if it's his four-year-old brother.

It became problematic when they first arrived at the bunker and Sam spent so much time with the books -- Dean's body couldn't rest without being tuned in to Sam -- even on a memory foam mattress. Dean's just grateful Sam got that and eventually started coming to bed, even though he doesn't respect the order of Dean's room and messes stuff up and doesn't hit the trashcan and leaves dirty socks in the corner where they land when he kicks them off.

His brother always has appropriated all of Dean's stuff -- his Lucky Charms, the ash trays in the Impala, his heart and his soul.

So when Sam slides out of the bed in the middle of the night, sending a blast of cold air under the covers, Dean grunts a sound with a question mark at the end.

Sam mumbles, "gotta pee" and doesn't wait for a response.

Dean scrubs his face into the pillow and tries not to notice how damn cold his back got when Sam left, even though he's wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants. The problem with fires -- if they're not tended to regularly and kept up -- is they can't combat the cold.

Dean doesn't doze -- he can't -- until his brother returns, shivering and shoving quickly back under the blanket, his giant limbs nothing but overly-huge slabs of ice, and his nipples prominent peaks that Dean can feel even through his shirt.

"Shit," Dean hisses, as Sam tucks his frozen feet between Dean's calves, his pajamas way too thin to protect him from the chill. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Sam's nose is jammed at the top of Dean's spine and his frigid fingers dig into Dean's belly. "Bathroom's too far away. My fucking dick nearly froze off."

Dean grits his teeth. "That's a shame -- s'the only part of you I can even remotely tolerate."

Dean's awake enough to feel Sam pretty much deflate behind him and pull back -- only marginally, but Dean's able to recognize his joke was taken way too seriously.

Despite the fatigue and his gummy, middle-of-the-night reflexes, Dean rolls over and tucks Sam's nose against his own clavicle, even though it's fucking cold and really, really dark and whispers, "Except for your brain. That's pretty awesome."

Sam doesn't move at all.

Dean drags his hand down the back of Sam's head. "And your hair. No matter how many times I tell you it needs cut, don't ever do it, okay?"

Sam's lungs seem frozen.

"And your ass," Dean wraps a leg around Sam's hips and taps Sam's left buttcheek with the heel of his foot, bunching up Sam's boxers. "That's mine, no matter what."

Dean swears he hears his brother huff a laugh.

"And your fucking shoulders," Dean whispers against Sam's temple, spurred on by Sam's reaction and the safety of the darkness around them. "Can carry the weight of the world, can't they, Sammy?"

Sam grabs the back of Dean's t-shirt in his fist. Hard.

"Scars," Dean says, voice raw, fully awake, fingers trailing down the middle of Sam's bare spine, where a knifeblade changed everything so long ago. "They prove you're here, right?"

Dean thinks Sam nods, but he's not completely sure.

"And your heart," Dean murmurs. "So big. Always has been. Makes me proud you're my brother."

Dean can feel Sam's kiss, light and quick, a chaste sensation of lips along his neck.

"Your feet, though, they're just fucking weird. Too big, man," Dean murmurs. "And smell? Jesus, you should be the focus group for Odor Eaters. Seriously."

Sam's laughing now. Dean can tell. Quiet puffs of air against his chest and Sam says, "Okay, stop."

"You good?" Dean asks. "Hmmm? Done taking my stupid joke seriously?"

Sam nods, nose rubbing Dean's collarbone.

Dean settles back down, still twisted up around Sam. "Warming up?"

"Gonna get a lot warmer."

Sam jolts his hips forward and Dean's just open enough with his leg around his brother to feel the rub between his pajamas and Sam's boxers and it tugs a streak of fire up Dean's spine, his ass clenches tight and he wants it, whatever Sam's willing to give, instantly.

"Fuck," Dean draws it out, bucks up a little closer to Sam's groin.

"You read my mind," Sam murmurs, sucking what's going to be a vivid hickey onto Dean's neck.

Middle of the night sex is the fucking greatest. It's dark and quiet and warm and heated under the blankets and Dean's still a little muzzy from sleep and that makes it even better because there's a comfort here -- an innate knowledge that it's Sam and it's fine and everything's okay -- that provides the whole give-and-take a feeling of safety and security and secrecy that's really awesome.

Dean tilts his chin up, loves the drag and pull of Sam's mouth, learned a long time ago that somehow the skin over his pulse points is directly connected to his dick, makes it fatten up fast.

He grunts as his blood rushes south, holds on to the back of Sam's head, keeping him in place, and hooks his knee even higher on Sam's side so he can rub his cock against Sam's abs.

Sam growls and rolls them, pins Dean on his back, slots between his legs, let's go of Dean's neck with an obscene slurping sound and locks their mouths together.

Dean has never been that into fashion, but he's so fucking grateful for drawstrings at the moment, he could almost cry. It takes just a couple of yanks for Sam to rid him of his pajama bottoms without losing the kiss and Dean gets a blast of chilly air when Sam tosses them into the corner of the room.

Having Dean naked must spur Sam on because he breaks away to find the lube and Dean seriously considers wearing a vial of the damn stuff around his fucking wrist because he hates that the good parts get interrupted for the prep.

Sam's back soon enough and he's not really delicate in the application -- he's got three fingers slicked up and buried inside Dean in an equal number of minutes and Dean sees so many stars he's sure for a second the bunker has a skylight.

"Jesus…fuck," he chokes, the stretch is unreal, hot, amazing and exactly like he wants it.

He can feel Sam hesitate, almost pull back and Dean growls, "You're good, Sammy, just fuck me."

Sam doesn't need any more encouragement and Dean's not certain when the whole thing got this heated, but his ass is really, really empty and he thinks if he doesn't feel Sam's massive cock splitting him open in the next minute, he might actually die.

Thankfully, somehow, Sam must be on the same page because he doesn't waste a second yanking his boxers down and lubing his dick before sliding balls deep in one wet, forceful thrust.

Dean's throat closes up around a drawn-out moan. Fuck, the penetration is stunning -- he's so full he's almost suffocating.

Sam sounds slightly distorted when he whispers, "Dean…"

Dean tells him, "go," and things get a little blurry.

It's a lot of friction and rubbing and grinding and Dean's t-shirt rides up and he's drowning because he's got his nose buried in Sam's hair and his dick is scraping Sam's stomach and he can't control -- pretty much anything.

"Dean, God," Sam gasps, words muffled against Dean's shoulder. "Fuck...I fucking love you...so damn much..." Sam's voice dies out and he jerks hard against Dean, clutches Dean's hips in strong hands, definitely leaving bruises, and Sam shatters -- there's really no other word for it -- he's quivering and shaking and saying, "oh, shit, oh God...m'sorry. S-sorry Dean," even as he's coming, dick emptying inside Dean and it's all -- all of it -- way too much, Dean can barely process it -- the only thing he knows is the powerful sensation of his own orgasm rippling up from the base of his spine on a burst of pleasure so intense, his chin quivers with the force.

Sam's panting, hips still pulsing without any kind of rhythm as he rides out the aftershocks in the wet mess of Dean's ass, and he's murmuring _sorry_ over and over again.

Dean knows the panicked apology is because of the confession that slipped out -- sex talk shouldn't be held against anyone -- but hearing the words from his brother set off such a glorious spark in Dean's stomach, such an exceptionally good feeling, that there's no way it can be wrong. And there's no way Sam should lament saying it.

Dean can tell Sam's trying to rectify it -- probably because he thinks Dean doesn't want to hear it or God forbid doesn't return it -- but Sam clearly won't take it back because he's struggling with his words, not saying _never mind_ or _forget it_ or _that's not what I meant_ or any of that other crap Sam uses when he let's something slip that's not really true.

Dean's got his fingers wound into Sam's hair without even thinking about it and through the fullness of Sam's softening cock still inside him and the resounding contractions still slowly spasming his hole, he manages to whisper, "Sammy, Sammy, it's okay. Stop. It's mutual," he makes sure his mouth is next to his brother's ear when he says, "Listen. It's mutual. You hear me? Huh? Mutual."

Sam lifts his head with an oddly suspicious sniff and his jaw trembles as he asks, "Yeah?"

Dean nods, but Sam keeps going, "M'sorry, Dean. It just…kinda came out…I've been trying not to…I didn't…you don't…"

"Hey," Dean interrupts, hears what his brother's actually saying and doesn't like the thought of Sam keeping something from him, even this. "Stop. It's okay," he takes a breath, feels the truth of what he's about to allow well up inside, knows that there's a part of him that wants it, "you can say it, Sammy."

"For real?" Sam whispers, just as his cock slips out of Dean and they both inhale pointedly.

"Yeah," Dean huffs, stretches a little, gets comfortable under his brother. "For real."

Sam's entire countenance changes in the blink of an eye -- worry and concern bleed into wonder and pure delight. He grins, a refreshingly ornery expression laced with outright glee. "Can I say it whenever I want?"

And even in the dark, Dean can tell that this is Sammy from so many years ago. Dean almost forgot Sam capable of such open adoration and genuine excitement and joy.

Dean pinches Sam's arm just to be an ass. "Within reason."

Sam smirks -- that, Dean notices pretty damn clearly. "At the end of phone calls?"

Dean's breathes, "Sam…"

"In Valentine cards?"

Dean chuckles.

"Oh, what if we're in the grocery store and leave each other for a different aisle?"

Dean shakes his head. "You're a shit."

Sam giggles -- actually fucking giggles -- and falls a little to the side so he's not completely crushing Dean, but manages to snuggle even closer.

They're quiet for a while and Dean drifts, is damn close to unconsciousness again when Sam whispers, "No take backs."

Dean rests his lips on the crown of Sam's head. "M'not taking it back, Sammy. I figure we got a place, might as well go whole hog here."

Sam squeezes him tighter and says, "Jesus, just when I think I've got you figured out…"

"Oh I'm an enigma, baby, don't even try."

"You're lucky I love you," Sam mumbles.

"You're lucky I already agreed to no take-backs."

Sam laughs.

Dean says "sleep."

And they do.

  
**


	2. Bonus Grocery Store Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more teeth-rotting schmoop. you probably don't have to read the one right before this to get it, but it will likely help. and guarantee that you don't actually have teeth left to rot out of your mouth on this one....

They're up north on the east coast, finalizing a routine case that Garth found involving a cursed carousel of all things. It didn't take much to get the spirit out and Sam's grateful that neither of them have so much as a scratch to show for the job. They're stocking up on supplies, headed back to Lebanon.

The grocery store is a chain, but it's not national, something only folks in the region know about, with a halfway decent selection. Dean's already dumped an alarming amount of potato chips into the cart and Sam's eyeing some honey, mustard and onion pretzels because he likes to torment Dean with the epic levels of bad breath they produce when his brother mumbles, "m'gettin' ice cream," and starts to walk away.

They've been good together and it's been so awesome, Sam feels like he's riding a high almost every day. They seem to click again, almost finish each other's sentences, and are really just enjoying the hell out of the bunker and each other and for the first time in a long time, Sam feels confident, comfortable, secure in Dean's presence.

There isn't any disharmony or tension or lurking secrets between them and it makes Sam a little breathless sometimes -- breathless...and contrary.

God, he loves that he's so sure about them and where they are that he feels fearless enough pick on Dean from time to time -- it's something they haven't done for years.

He drops the pretzels into the cart and waits until Dean is almost at the end of the aisle before he inhales -- deep -- and in his strongest voice -- the one that Mrs. Puknell, the English teacher, told him carried all the way to the back of the auditorium in Our Town -- hollers, "Dean Winchester! I love you!"

He watches his brother freeze -- Dean actually stops walking -- and turn slowly back around.

Sam gives a little wave -- assumes the chances of anyone in the modest town actually recognizing the name are slim to none.

Even from the distance, Sam can see Dean's eyes narrow and his lungs inflate on what is obviously a put-upon sigh.

"Just wanted to let you know," Sam says, volume a bit lower, but still strong enough to carry.

Dean tilts his head in a gesture that screams, "really?" even from almost ten feet away.

Sam senses motion from his right and finds a woman -- gray haired and tiny -- the top of her head barely comes up to his chest -- looking at him with one of the sappiest expressions he's seen in a while.

She smiles at him and asks, "Is that your boyfriend?"

And damn, a four-worded question should not make Sam's heart swell to the point where he has to take a jagged breath, but this one really, really does. He nods, not entirely sure he can speak without having his voice crack.

She eyes Dean up and and down and when she glances back to Sam, proclaims, "He's handsome."

Sam agrees, "Yeah, he really is."

By this point, Dean's making his way back down the aisle -- his brother can't be left out of a conversation which obviously involves him -- with a pretty annoyed expression.

The little old lady is saying, "You're very lucky," just as Dean stops in front of them.

Without taking his eyes off Dean, Sam responds with, "I really, really am."

Dean's doing that thing where he's trying desperately to hold onto his irritation, but tiny sparks of happiness keep slipping out in the green of his eyes and the curve of his lips.

"Your boyfriend was just telling me what a catch you are," the woman explains to Dean.

Dean just about full-on boggles at that. "M-my..."

"Oh, it's okay, sweetheart," the lady continues. "I'm not one of those narrow-minded bigots that seem to plague my generation. I think it's great that you two found each other. You make a very handsome couple."

Sam doesn't intend to gloat and preen, but it's difficult not to and he knows Dean can see it.

"How long have you been together?" she inquires.

Sam clears his throat. "Seems like all our lives."

Dean shoots him a  _you've gotta be fucking kidding me_  look and Sam can feel the smile light up his whole face.

The little old lady pretty much coos at them. "I'm Mabel. Lived here all my life, but I can't say I've ever seen you boys around before."

"No, ma'am," Sam lays it on thick because Mabel's really lapping it up and it's making Dean's eyebrow twitch. "We're just passing through. I'm Sam and this is Dean."

"Where're you boys from?"

"Kansas," Sam tells her, and the truth of it settles around him -- he thinks it's funny how life really does seem to roll in circles sometimes.

"Heavens, you're a long way from home, aren't you?"

"We're just picking up some stuff before we head out tonight," Sam explains, enjoying the chance to talk like their lives are fixed, established.

Dean has rounded the edge of the cart, sidled up so that their hands rest just inches away from each other and Dean's body heat and presence buoy Sam's already carefree mood. He's not sure his brother's even aware how inside the personal bubble he stands, but it just solidifies how intertwined they are, how their natural state is to subconsciously gravitate toward one another, not away.

"Well, I won't keep you," she says, flapping her hand a bit. She gives each of them a shrewd once-over, a scrutiny that's both knowing and contemplative and Sam shivers with the feeling that she understands far more than they're telling, but there's nothing malevolent or supernatural about it. Just the wisdom of years and the acceptance and tolerance of age. "You two take care of each other, okay?"

Dean nods and Sam says, "Yes ma'am. We will."

She bobs her head once as though she's confident they will follow through on her decree and continues down the aisle.

Dean waits until she's around the corner and makes sure no one else is nearby to say, "So what part of within reason is it that you don't understand, college boy?"

Sam smiles -- he can't help it -- he's got his brother by his side, the blessing of their relationship from a sweet old lady and an exhilarating contentment in his chest that hasn't gone away in weeks. "Just wanted to make sure you were aware, that's all. M'trying to keep you up-to-date," he rests his elbows against the handle of the cart, even closer to Dean and thrills a little when his brother doesn't back away. "I'm like the town cryer. Letting you know all is well."

Dean rolls his eyes and mumbles, "Need to get you a bell to ring or something."

Sam giggles -- the sound escapes, high-pitched and silly -- and he takes one of the biggest chances of his life and tilts forward for a brief but succinct kiss.

Dean's either too shocked to pull back right away or he forgets where they are or he really wants to kiss Sam because he leans into it, moves his bottom lip against Sam's mouth and the kiss lasts longer than Sam would have thought.

Dean withdraws with a, "You're gonna get us run outta here on the rails," but even the half-hearted grumbling can't dampen the wattage of Sam's grin or the obvious elation on Dean's face.

"Guess you gotta come with me for ice cream if I want to keep the declarations to a minimum, huh?" Dean asks, while wrapping his fingers in the metal bars at the end of the cart and dragging Sam along.

Sam lets himself be pulled, kind of loves the way Dean's guiding them both and jokes, "I could always tell the people we meet along the way."

Dean turns with narrowed eyes and growls, "no," but Sam can see the green sparkle and knows there's a part of Dean that really thrives on this kind of attention.

They find an ice cream made out of candy bars and Dean almost has a coronary, he's so anxious to try it. Sam discovers an amazing-looking apple pie, but he can't get it into the cart past Dean's complaints that frozen pies are apparently the foundation of what's wrong with the world these days.

They're packing up their groceries at the end of the checkout and Dean's paying with cash -- not a fraudulent card -- and Sam realizes they've got actual food mixed in with the junk and he loves the domesticity of it. Dean had found some flank steaks that he plans to stuff one night for dinner and some ground beef that Sam's still not sure what Dean's doing with and they got a cooler and some ice to keep it fresh on the trip. It's the first time they're using a cooler for something other than beer and it's lame and a little foolish to get caught up in something so trivial, but it makes Sam's chest tingle a little.

The Impala's rumbling beneath them and the interstate's stretched out in front of them and Zeppelin's playing low in the tape deck. Sam sighs deep and looks over at his brother.

Dean's outlined in moonlight and he's more relaxed and content than Sam remembers seeing him in a long, long while.

The whole day somehow empowers him to stretch across -- he doesn't unbuckle because Dean won't allow them to ride without seatbelts anymore, probably because of how many times they've been in accidents -- and snake his fingers under Dean's palm, between skin and the denim of Dean's jeans.

Sam's grateful for his reach because it's not even really uncomfortable to sit like this, fingers laced with Dean's.

Dean doesn't take his eyes of the road when he asks, "Seriously?"

Sam pivots his hips, still under the seatbelt, so he's facing Dean and says, "No audience this time. Just you and me."

Dean heaves a melodramatic sound as though he can't imagine a worse fate than being plagued with a touchy-feely brother, but he doesn't so much as glance at Sam, which means he's trying to hide his real reaction, something Sam guesses is undeniable glee. It takes a few seconds, but Dean eventually squeezes Sam's hand, tugs their combined fingers a little higher on his thigh and settles in for the trip.

Sam doesn't even notice the miles pass.

~ end


End file.
